


The String that Knots the Hangman's Bag

by WatteauYouDoing



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Other, Sassy, Villain Protagonist, and has a deathwish, at least at first, reader eggs him on but it's still pretty Not Great, reader is shitty, reader with a personality, reader works for talon, reaper is just pissy., reaper is violent towards the reader, so don't worry about that, this work doesn't and never will contain dubcon, villain reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-07 09:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11055687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatteauYouDoing/pseuds/WatteauYouDoing
Summary: Due to circumstances that he isn't quite sure that he understands, Reaper is forced into a partnership with you, a self-identified 'secretary', in order to maintain his current working relationship with Talon. In a normal situation, this would only be a minor inconvenience, but you seem to be gunning for the award of 'biggest piece of shit on the planet' and nothing delights you more than making his life hell. You come with a fair amount of baggage though, along with a fair number of secrets, and Reaper finds himself dragged into something far greater than he ever bargained for.Fate has many things in store for the man once known as Gabriel Reyes, and his own death might once again be in the cards.





	1. A Prologue, Which can Perhaps be more Colloquially Known as a Shakedown

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is made possible by shea.tumblr.com, who commissioned me to turn the prompt of 'a Reaper/reader fic, also my kink is getting beaten up' into literally whatever I wanted. You're a big old sweetheart!

In a chilly apartment in Moscow, a man met his unfortunate, yet thoroughly and absolutely deserved fate.

His name was Gabriel Reyes, though he didn’t often think of himself as Gabriel Reyes anymore. Rather, in the rare times he happened to look in the mirror, the only thing that he saw was _Reaper._

Perhaps that was because he perpetually insisted on wearing his mask, even when he was completely and absolutely alone. It was a simple thing that made it so much easier to deny his humanity, allowing him to accept that oscillation of necrosis and rebirth churning through his ravaged form. It set the creature that had been murdered apart from that which had crawled from the lingering ashes...

And it was a reminder that he was the grim reaper, in all things - an existence that dwelled between life and death that could only take and take and _take._

Unfortunately, however, you were a being that existed to make fun of others, so you could only think of him as a moody fifteen year old, even as he stopped in the middle of the room and considered his reflection in the mirror.

“You don’t need to fret; you’re looking just as handsome as usual.”

Reaper spun, mask whipping towards you as you leaned against the door-frame. The glass beside him reflected his profile, a sharp thing of stark lines and threatening edges, and the way his shoulders set themselves in a tense, agitated line brought a grin to your features. In less than a second, he crossed that distance, black smoke erupting around you as you felt the cold metal of a gun barrel shoved into your neck.

It's interesting, how the validity of a response is wholly dependent on the situation that prompts it.

This would, in a normal circumstance, be a gross overreaction. Why yes, your tone had certainly been condescending and, if you might add, a bit blithe and flirtatious, but certainly nothing mean-spirited enough to draw arms over. You’d not insulted his friends or family - not that he had any! - and you certainly hadn’t slandered his character, so what justification had he for slamming you into the wall so hard that your head bounced off the cheap plaster?

 _"Who the fuck are you?”_ he growled, his mask dominating the entirety of your vision, and that really was the rub, wasn’t it?

It wasn’t your comment that had set him off; it was the fact that you’d _broken into his apartment._

Given that his gun was pressed so fiercely against your throat, you could only gurgle in reply. He seemed to realize that, so in the interests of hearing your reply, he relaxed just a _fraction_ and stopped choking you quite as thoroughly.

He immediately regretted it however, as the first words out of your mouth were a cheerfully woven pick-up line. “Who else would I be but an angel sent by God to sweep you off your feet?”

Reaper’s uncomprehending disbelief gave you a momentary reprieve before he resumed his manhandling of your windpipe. He wrapped his fingers around your flesh, squeezing it, and with his dominant hand, he forced your face to the side with the barrel of his gun. “I said, _who the fuck are you. Answer me!”_

He didn’t let you reply immediately, probably to impress the severity of the situation upon you.

It didn’t work. Your cheerful grin was the epitome of insolence, and you continued to be as frustrating as you possibly could. “I’m just a meager secretary, my dear sweet dev-- ”

You hadn’t even finished before he grabbed your shoulder, spinning you roughly and jamming his elbow into your back. He kept his gun against the nape of your neck, the metal burning across your skin, and you couldn’t move, pressed as firmly against the wall as you were. Ah, what a wonderful day! And lovelier still was his slow, gravelly growl in your ear as he rumbled more dark and vicious threats. “Tell me who you are, or I swear, I will take you apart piece by _piece._ ”

You could only laugh. “Oh my, I can think of nothing better! End my existence and throw me into the river, good sir. Nothing would make me happier.”

Well, _that_ got to him. He grabbed a fistful of your hair with his free hand, heaving on it with a snap before pummeling your forehead into the plaster. You felt the pain most prominently in your nose, and a fierce, violent ringing sprang up in your ears. If he hadn’t gone right back to shoving you with his shoulder, you might have fallen to your knees. _“Tell me who you are, or I will hurt you until all you can do is scream.”_

“Oh, darling~” You said through the _shittiest_ of bloodstained grins. “What will the neighbors think? You’re so _kinky._ ”

Apparently, Reaper had his lines in the sand, boundaries which you’d just _leaped_ _over_ like a runaway stagecoach. He grabbed your hair again, but this time, he was so horrifically aggrieved that he didn’t even threaten you, didn’t even _torture_ you -

He simply opened the door, planted his boot into your back, and tried to kick you out.

Unfortunately for him, the key word in that sentence was _tried,_ because you had far quicker reflexes than he’d given you credit for… and the depths you were willing traverse in the pursuit of your whims dove into a far deeper gulf of insanity than even he could have ever anticipated. You turned before he could slam the door in your face, and you shoved your leg into the gap, using it to prop open the door like one might use a piece of cardboard or a spare block of wood.

“Oh, don’t get so frustrated,” you drawled, your voice dripping with perpetual amusement despite the blood dribbling from your nose. Pain spiked through your limb, but you ignored it, wrapping your fingers around the door’s edge and pushing forward so your features filled the gap. “You just need to start asking the right questions.”

Reaper stared at you, gun pointed at your face, and finally - stunned beyond all perplexion - started playing along. “And what _fucking question_ is that?”

As you spoke, he finally noticed that you had a manila folder in your other hand, and - as you waved it back and forth - the man formerly known as Gabriel Reyes was filled with an incomprehensible amount of dread. _“_ Why darling, it’s very simple. You should be asking this: _whose secretary am I, exactly?”_

That single sentence, and the appearance of a maniac on Reaper’s doorstep, predicated a very strange, very unfortunate, and ultimately, very tumultuous _partnership_ that would culminate in the destruction of the character he had so lovingly crafted in the mirror.


	2. Our World is Made of Endless Metal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be good to go on... Wednesday? Let's say Wednesday for now.

An ever-moving, ever-churning world of metal and flesh lay beneath the great city of London, built into the foundations and winding through concrete tunnels underneath the lavish expanse of King’s Row. Fluorescent lights eliminated the shadows, rendering it a stark world stripped of depth beneath the efficiency of modern light. This underground neighborhood never slept, not really – and not because approximately seventy-five percent of its population had never once experienced the process. The advent of the modern age had, with it, brought a certain… disinclination towards adopting a normal nine-to-five schedule, and while  _ early to bed, early to rise _ was a mantra shared by some stragglers of the population, many others burned the midnight oil – meaning that there was always  _ some  _ sort of activity in this never-dim world. Shopping, cleaning, errands being run, various sorts of maintenance conducted by the (primarily) omnic workforce… one would think that remaining undetected in such a place would be nigh-impossible for  _ anyone _ .

This imaginary doubter would not be Reaper, the shadow of shadows, the darkness that existed in a world that would not acknowledge the dark. 

Hearing him dismiss your concerns by saying _that_ had you practically bust a gut laughing. Holy shit, seriously? Did this guy have any shame? The offense had, of course, caused him to shove you against a wall and snarl threats in your ear, but you’d gotten pretty used to that in your short association with the man. It wasn’t like he could kill you anyway. The answer to your question the first day you’d met him had ensured that.  

If Reaper wanted Talon’s help in dismantling Overwatch, he would have to deal with your…  _ eccentricities. _

“Is humming truly necessary,” a dark whisper that was more of a  _ complaint _ than a  _ question  _ rose up from the small disc of shadow pooled beneath your feet. “There’s no one around.”

You grinned down at Reaper, watching his gaseous form flicker almost imperceptibly before turning your attention to the keypad directly adjacent to the solid, steel-framed door in front of you. “I’m embodying my role in all aspects! If someone turns the corner right now, all they’ll see is a cheerful machinist drunk off life and ready to do their solemnly sworn duty. Speaking of…”

The pin-pad produced a soft, electronic beep, and the door let off a burst of steam as it opened. “Quiet down there, cupcake. This is the hard bit.”

Reaper grumbled in reply, and you felt the gentle pulse of bruises aching around your neck and shoulders. God, pissing him off was so much fun.

No one stopped you as you descended a flight of mesh stairs, your footsteps echoing lightly in the concrete well. Your standard-issue blue jumpsuit took care of that. Someone  _ did _ look your way as you turned down a hall into one of the security offices, but you held your own during the resulting questioning, and a flash of your definitely-stolen security badge set the omnic man at ease. You, of course, took special precautions to hide your face from the security cameras – turning just-so and keeping it from getting much beyond the shadowed curve of your cheek. And no one stopped you as you settled in front of the door to your target – a room that, by your map, should contain massive amounts of data regarding the omnic city’s construction... a plethora of blueprints, shipping manifestos, and logs that your employers had assigned you to retrieve.

Talon was looking for something, though you didn’t know what, precisely, it was, and they were clearly hoping to find some record of it buried away in mountains of confidential construction data.

“Ready to roll, sunshine?” you murmured to the man swirling beneath the soles of your feet, flashing a grin down at him as your hand lingered on the final access pad.

“Shut up and open the door.”

Your laugh hummed quietly in your throat as you punched in the code you’d stolen a scant hour earlier, hit  _ enter… _ and then stepped aside as a flood of whirling shadow spilled around your legs and through the steadily growing opening.

It was over in a few seconds, a flurry of silenced shots and the sound of bodies clattering to the floor being the only mark of the assassination. You waited a few seconds, back pressed against the plain, featureless wall as you waited for the go-ahead to do your job. It came in the form of a snarled  _ get in here, _ and you found yourself wondering if Reaper was always this chipper and upbeat, or if jobs with you were just the special exception.

Poking your head through, you found a room filled with approximately five bodies, four omnic and one human whose brain matter painted one of the large screens attached to a huge monitor attached to the central computer terminal on the desk. “Lovely. It seems like we were right on time.”

“Mmph.”

Lightly stepping over a stray metal arm, you picked your way over to Reaper’s side, glancing up at the continually seething specter towering over you before turning your attention down to the keyboard. “Good work! Now just wait right there, tall-dark-and-handsome, and I’ll work my technological wizardry.”

Reaper groaned audibly, holstering his matte-black pistols and leaning against the desk. This wasn’t a particularly interesting assignment for him – knocking out five tech-guys for you wasn’t really the most entertaining job in the world – and being confined to the presence of your  _ terrible _ personality was giving him a migraine.

In fact, it would have been total overkill for him to be here in the first place, if – for some reason – Talon hadn’t wanted this meeting between five of the main parties responsible for upper-level construction projects in the city to end in their respective deaths. Considering your orders were to transfer all of the data on their system to an external hard drive and  _ completely annihilate _ everything afterwards, he could only conclude that – for some reason – it was in their interests to completely obscure all past records of the city’s construction and, beyond that, eliminate anyone with the knowledge to recreate the data.

Baffling, but it wasn’t his business to worry about it.

He watched you hum as your fingers flew across the keys, experiencing the arrogant nonchalance of someone who thought they’d done their job exceptionally well and was looking forward to being lazy for the rest of the evening.

Unfortunately, that was not the case, as Reaper – being something of an arrogant man in general – hadn’t actually checked to see if everyone else in the room was  _ dead. _

His name was Praetorium Constantine, an omnic who’d probably gotten his moniker through a night of binging the ‘Rome and Romans’ section of Wikipedia.  Reaper didn’t notice the twitch of his metal hand, and even if he had, he would have attributed it to the last sparks being released from his dying power unit. After all, he thought he’d gotten a clean shot through the omnic’s core processor, which  _ should _ have left him the equivalent of brain dead… but the bullet had gotten stuck partway through, and while what was left of the man’s CPU was hardly fully operational, it was enough to run basic processes such as movement.

And, unfortunately for you, targeting.

In a display of auditory acuity that was, perhaps, a bit  _ unnatural, _ you detected just the faintest hint of a scrape behind you. You turned your head just in time to see the barrel of a gun being raised directly at your face.

There was a long, long moment as you just… stared at the chrome figure, watching him prop himself up on his arm as the dark depths of a pistol angled itself right between your eyes. It wasn’t that you didn’t understand that, in about a second or two, you were going to die – you just seemed like you didn’t even  _ care. _ That placid smile of yours never left your face, not for a second, and you barely even flinched as you stared death in the eyes.

You didn’t even bother to blink. Your shoulders relaxed as the drive beneath your fingertips hummed, and you accepted that it would be the last thing you feel.

In quick succession of movements – so rapid that you couldn’t even tell what order the sounds occurred in - there was a bang, a violent  _ whoosh _ like a pyre catching flame, and the crash of a ceramic mug being knocked to the floor as you collided with the desk.

It took less than a second for Reaper to put himself between you and him, and the misty edges of his armor reminded you of a cloud of locusts as he reassembled himself. His gun was out, pointed at the flat-faced man on the floor, and he shot twice – twin peals of noise that were quickly followed by the sound of his boot colliding with the omnic’s body, his metal joints shattering under the repeated, violent contact.

Frozen, you clung to the desk, using it to support yourself as you watched Reaper’s back. He breathed heavily – you could hear each rough, rasping breath crackling out of his throat before he kicked at the now thoroughly decimated metal corpse. Its head snapped sharply to the side, and you were  _ fully _ and completely certain that Praetorium Constantine was no more.

Reaper turned back to you in a sharp whirl, and you immediately noticed a bloodied chink in his armor, right around shoulder level and  _ about _ where your face would have been had he not swooped in to intervene. He didn’t comment, and you found your mouth going dry… though from what, precisely, you weren’t certain. Adrenaline, maybe? How narrowly you’d just brushed past death?

Or maybe it was simply seeing him, stomping over to you and shoving you back towards the terminal. “Get going. Someone will have heard that.”

You nodded, ceramic crumbling underneath your shoe as you adjusted your position, and resumed your work. Amusingly enough, you didn’t realize then what that small hole really meant in the grand scheme of things.

It might have been your fate to lead to his destruction, but you hadn’t the slightest idea that it started with an indent the size of a quarter.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Knock-knock-knock._  

It was a trio of raps, three muted disturbances that blended together before fading into the quiet hush of the hotel hallway. You loitered in front of the door, a folder underneath one arm as you waited to be let in – something that you were confident would occur shortly, as it was just around three in the morning and Reaper didn’t go to sleep until dawn.

Despite definitely being awake, he kept you out there for a full minute, though he’d clearly heard you, considering his response to your next series of knocks was an annoyed _hold on a second._ Being a complete piece of shit, you immediately began counting out out _one second, two seconds, three seconds…_ which soon produced an increasingly agitated _fuck off_.  

Your smile became a bit less absent.  

When Reaper opened the door, you were a bit taken aback to see that he wasn’t wearing his armor. You still couldn’t properly see his features – the darkness of the room beyond combined with a face mask and hood ensured that – but it was still… odd to see him in something as casual as a hoodie.

Of course, you didn’t have much room to talk, considering you hadn’t bothered to change out of your pajamas to go see him, and your loose, baggy shirt gave him a heretofore unseen view of your neck and arms. He seemed uninterested though, immediately proceeding straight to the point. “What do you want?”

You waved the folder underneath his nose, which he abruptly snapped up and began looking through. “Our next job. Can I come in? I’d prefer not to do this in the hall.”

Reaper didn’t look at you, stepping aside with the opened document before him.

The room was plain, a mirrored copy yours except for the enormous suitcase full of weaponry sitting off to the side. Reaper had the window open, the heavy maroon curtains fluttering in the breeze, and for a moment you dwelled on the image of him standing there and brooding. It made you giggle, which meant you were treated to a particularly flat look from him. He  _ knew _ you were thinking terrible thoughts, even though he couldn’t be sure about their exact content.

Not bothering to explain yourself, you closed the door, enveloping the both of you in shadow and leaving the ambient light from the window the only thing illuminating the room. 

“Management was very pleased with our performance, despite the little hiccup. How are you feeling, by the way? Your boo-boo all better?”

No word in the English language could appropriately describe the disgust in Reaper’s voice at that moment. “I am fine. Is that all you wanted?”

“Mostly. I just need you to read that briefing and then tell me if you have any questions.”

Reaper clicked his tongue, absently flipping through the pages as he moved to stand by the window. You joined him, partially because you felt just a teensy bit weird staying there alone in the dark. Even though he didn’t look at you or acknowledge your presence in the slightest, being near him made you feel… companionship, perhaps?

A slight sense of relaxation?

You couldn’t quite describe it, but the atmosphere around him amused you, like a continual font of entertainment existed by your side.

“…You people are having me steal from an  _ art museum _ next? Is this really what I’ve been reduced to?”

You looked over at Reaper, a smile quirking across your lips. “Does it really matter, as long as you get what you want in the end?”

He sighed heavily, the sound muffled by the cloth strip obscuring his mouth. For a moment, he continued to stare at the folder, and then his gaze fell back to you again. You thought he was going to say something, but then – in the brief window formed by the edge of the mask and the brim of his hood – you saw him squint. “What’s this?”

Reaper had done a lot of things to you. Punched you, threatened you, shut your leg in a door, sassed you,  _ saved _ you, and yet, not once, had he ever really looked at you. Not that you’d given him much of an opportunity, but now - with you in your night-shirt and illuminated by the window - he could see something on your person that was even more peculiar than your personality.

There was a thin strip of metal set deeply into your neck, matching equally thin plates grafted into the length of your arms.

You didn’t have a chance to reply before you felt gentle brush of fabric gliding across your skin. He reached out to touch it with his thumb, that strange, oddly warm material that, were its chrome surface not a clear contrast to the softness of your flesh, could almost be mistaken as a natural part of your body. You were surprised – not only because of the suddenness of his contact, but because of how tender it felt. Explorative, rather than rough and demanding, though you doubted it was for any concern for your own comfort. Reaper’s bafflement had simply made him hesitant. Uncertain.

It sent a strange thrill down your spine, one you hid by turning your face to the window and putting on the shittiest of shit-eating grins. “Just a bit of decoration. You don’t really have a right to judge, given that you looked like you walked straight out of Spirit Halloween.”

Reaper’s hand twitched, and you felt his fingers wrap around your neck in reflexive anger before he pulled back with a snap. He didn’t say anything, crossing his arms like a sulky child as he watched you splay your fingertips across the sill. “Not going to rough me up a bit? You certainly weren’t shy last time.”

“I’m not particularly interested in playing into your fantasies,” he said flatly, and strangely enough without his characteristic growl. Reaper didn’t turn his gaze away from you, watching you as you stared out over the dim city, and you felt his contemplation crawl across your back. Clearly, he’d gotten to thinking about something, though his natural reticence meant it took a while to actually come out. “Why didn’t you flinch?”

That wasn’t what you expected, and at first, you weren’t really sure what he meant. “Mm? Just now?”

“No. When that omnic was trying to shoot you. You weren’t even going to move – how stupid are you?”

Reaper always sounded angry. But there was something there right now, a harsher, more controlled grit that made you feel strange in your gut.  You kept your gaze glued to a streetlight shining on the pavement across from the window, the light fuzzing into a luminous aureole the longer you stared. “I was surprised. I’m not really combat trained, you know, people pulling guns on me isn’t something I’m used to.”

_ “Bullshit. _ That’s not it. You did the same thing when we first met. You stuck your _leg_ _  in a fucking door. _ Are you actually insane? What’s your problem? Do you have some sort of  _ death-wish? _ ”

“Ooh, do you want me to monologue about my  _ tragic backstory? _ ” You giggled naturally, the sound shaking your shoulders as you kept your eyes on that light. “Or talk more about my kinks? I thought you hated that. Or have you warmed up to me a little now? We  _ are _ in your room…”

You’d sort of expected him to have stormed out at this point, but he didn’t, staring at the exit to the darkened hotel room with an agitated twitch of his finger. Maybe he was thinking about it. Why was he thinking about it? What had brought this weird mood on?

The words had come out of your mouth before you even really realized what was happening. Distantly, like a sort of dream – or maybe you should call it a delirium. “What do you think of omnics, Reaper?”

This caught him off guard, and you heard the cloth of his coat shift as he turned to look back at you again. “Omnics? What brought that up?”

“Curiousity. Talon’s going to crush them in their path to conquest, you know. Crush everything. Does that bother you?”

“Why the fuck would it? It’d be like getting sad over used cars being turned into scrap metal. Except, in this case, the cars have latent homicidal tendencies.”

That got an honest laugh out of you and, for a moment, you felt something almost like genuine fondness for the man standing behind you. “Well, I expected as much. And I suppose you don’t think much of their sentience, either? That they’re people, that they deserve rights?”

“Rights? Being people? Who the fuck gets to decide that, and why does it even matter anyway? The world is shit. We’re all shit. I care about as much about a tin can getting blown up as a person, that is to say – not at all. So, no. It doesn’t bother me what Talon’s end goal is. As long as I get what I want, it’s all the same in the end.”

There was a pause, and what came out of that man’s mouth next that night sent something sharp and strange through you. “Aren’t you the same, secretary? As long as you get your cut… do you really care about what happens to other people?”

“My cut,” you repeated softly, raising your hand to your neck and rubbing the back of it with your palm. “You’re right. It’s all the same in the end.”

There was a strange sort of silence, and before he could say anything, you put on a smile and turned to him. The light from the window shimmered across your collar, shining beneath a softly backlit wave of hair. “Well, Reaper, I’ll leave you in peace. The shadow of the night should have some time to get some brooding in, right? If you have any more questions about the job, let me know. I’m right next door.”

He didn’t stop you as you passed him, nor did he watch you go, simply crossing his arms once more and continuing to face the empty space you left behind. Right next door.

Reaper grumbled something about how he wished it was farther.


	3. Those That Can, Do. Those That Can't, Teach.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have an extraordinarily cryptic conversation with someone who pisses you off. Surprisingly, it's not Reaper.

Being trapped in your shadow was driving Reaper slowly and steadily insane.

Well, perhaps “trapped’ was the incorrect word to use, given that nothing was technically forcing Reaper to come along with you today other than his own petulance and overbearing, cynical nature. But, over the course of his association with you, he’d grown so skeptical of your own competence and your ability to refrain from getting yourself killed that – even though the trip you were taking today was a mundane, ordinary, simplistic shopping mission – he assisted on escorting you during your daily chores.

You didn’t mind the company; far from it. In fact, it gave you ample time to harass the man even further, a delight that had become your newest, most favorite hobby over the weeks he’d been forced to endure your continued presence. There was something viscerally satisfying in having him squirm in your shadow, irritated but unable to do anything without revealing his presence. You loved having him at your mercy.

Despite how pleasing it was, you had to admit that the logistics of his existence were baffling. How exactly did he shop for groceries? How did he buy new boxers and replace his casual clothes? You knew that the man wasn’t capable of having fun, so the concern of leisure activity didn’t trouble you, but he had to eat, right? What, did he just order take-out every night and pass the money through a crack in the door so no one would see his face? Did he just go out for pizza in his hoodie and face mask, looking like a shitty bank robber from the slums?

Asking him didn’t do anything to satiate your curiosity. He just told you to piss off.

(He also told you to piss off when you suggested that you get some food from the street stalls and drop it down to him like he was a pigeon. It was one of his favorite phrases.)

You could have insisted that you didn’t need the help, sure. He was just being really, really stupid over you almost getting killed in the bowels of King’s Row. But it was nice having him with you; rather like a change of pace. You didn’t really act like it, but you’d spent a grand majority of your life doing things completely alone. It was _fun_ to have someone to play with.

It was _fun_ to have someone to torment.

“Oooh, this one looks nice,” you murmured to yourself, stopping at a booth set up in the crowded public square. While there was nothing you needed at a flea market, you’d had to go through it to return to your hotel after doing your actual, necessary shopping, and despite his best efforts, Reaper hadn’t been able to dissuade you from taking a peek.

You set down a paper bag full of assorted, common miscellaneous items that all coincidentally happened to be useful components of a heist (such as rope, dark clothing, and a cache of bullets you’d acquired from an underground weapons dealer that you currently had hidden in a shoebox full of packing paper) and began peering at the merchandise. It was all jewelry, namely, hair clips, and the one you had in your hands sparkled in the beaming sunlight. Small roses crafted from clay bloomed out of clusters of assorted rhinestones, and though it was clearly a cheaply made piece, you couldn’t help but think it was endearingly cute.

Reaper did not agree, and you heard him growl from the murky shade beneath your feet. “Are you _done?_ Let’s go back to the hotel. This is pointless.”

The hustle and bustle of the market made his voice impossible for anyone to notice but you, and similarly, no one paid you any mind when you replied. They’d just assume you were talking into the earpiece you had around your right lobe. “Hey, I _like_ not being trapped in a single room all day, thank you very much. Unless there’s something else you’d like to do there…?”

Reaper tugged on your leg hard enough to make you stumble, and you laughed as you righted yourself. That, however, someone noticed, and soon you were presented with the rather worried shopkeeper selling his array of barrettes.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I just lost my balance.” You dismissed his concern, a smile painted on your face as you _stomped on Reaper with your foot._ He probably couldn’t feel it, but perhaps he’d get the clue that he should knock that off. There was a big difference in having a chat and _him practically knocking you down in public._

You were dumb, not _stupid._

The shopkeeper seemed to accept your excuse, and his gaze fell to the small piece of jewelry in your hand. “That’ll be 8£, if you’re interested. My daughter makes them.”

You set the piece down, freeing your hand up to find your wallet. “And she’s making you sell them?” you asked, amused. It wasn’t like you particularly cared about the answer, but it was something to fill up the space as you moved.

“No, no. I just took over her stall so she could take a look around.”

He sounded proud. You wondered what that was like.

“How dutiful. Well, here you are – eight exactly,” you replied, holding out the bills. He took them, filing them away in a register, and then looked up to ask you if you wanted a bag – but you were already gone.

“What should we do next?” you chirped to your shadow. “The day’s young, and there’s plenty of the city to explore! We could go to a museum? Do some more shopping? The world is our oyster!”

“I hate oysters, and we should, at the very least, _not be carrying our ‘ **purchases**_ ’ _around the entire day._ ”

“But if I take you back to the hotel room, you’ll just want to stay there and _be boring.”_

“You don’t have to _take me back,_ you realize _._ I can leave on my own.”

“Not,” you chirruped, gesticulating with the barrette in your hand. “If I only stay in crowded, sunny areas!”

Reaper didn’t have a chance to reply, as you immediately bumped into someone, letting all of your _purchases_ fall to the ground in a disorderly sprawl.

Intriguingly enough, the thing you collided with wasn’t made of flesh and bone, but instead a lithe, shining metal form that immediately began apologizing and aiding you in collecting your scattered goods.  He was an omnic, and not only that, he was an omnic you recognized – at the very least by allegiance. His exposed chest, the plates of which were linked by heavy metal tubing, was thin and human-like, with delicately crafted joints and arms that ended in profoundly detailed hands. His face, with its two, deeply cut incisions that served as eyes, was frozen in an expression of permanent calm, and the lower portion of his head – which pareidolia caused you to view as a mouth – was crafted from a shining, yellowish-bronze metal that matched his saffron colored pants. Prayer beads floated around him, hovering close to him like a heavenly raiment, and if that wasn’t a big enough clue, the pattern of blue dots on his forehead sealed the deal.

He was one of the Shambali monks. Given that you _weren’t in the Himalayas,_ you could only assume that he was a very particular Shambali monk – or rather, _ex-Shambali_ monk.

You could already feel Reaper getting agitated.

“I apologize profusely for my rudeness; are you unharmed?”

He had a calm, even voice, peaceful and tranquil, that somehow, despite his rather unassuming appearance, made you unable to focus on anything but him. Or perhaps that was the suspicion?

You smiled. It was your form of a passively maintained barrier. “You don’t have to apologize, it was my fault! Here, let me get that.”

Kneeling, you reached out for the shoebox _full of bullets,_ and as you stretched, your sleeve shifted, revealing part of your forearm and the silvery metal set into it. Most people didn’t pay it much mind, though you always wore turtlenecks, keeping most people from even _noticing._ Somewhat unfortunate in the heat, though honestly? You couldn’t say that you got outside very much.

But Zenyatta seemed to be waiting for it, or at the very least, he was perceptive enough to notice it and knew enough to realize what it meant. He caught your wrist between his long digits, and his hands were surprisingly warm. You supposed it made sense. He wasn’t a cold, lifeless machine – electricity whirred through him in the pulse of mechanical life, generating motion and with it, heat.

You turned your grin upwards, and – not for the first time – were unnerved by your inability to read omnic facial features.

Hypocrisy, to be sure, but if being confronted with that eternal, genial passivity rendered you a hypocrite, then so be it.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he buzzed softly, turning your hand over so he could see your palm. “How long ago did this happen?”

None of this was coincidence. Your mouth went entirely dry.

 “Is that really what you came here to ask?” you replied, frozen there among a crowd of people. The two of you were akin to a rock jutting out of a river, and currents of pedestrians washed around you. “Where are your _friends?”_

His voice might almost sound compassionate, if you didn’t think all compassion was the foundation of a lie. “Not here, at the present. To my distress, none of them were interested in perusing the flea market… though, I suppose that works to my favor, now.”

“Hah.” You looked at the shoebox by your feet. Zenyatta still hadn’t let go of you… to keep you from running, perhaps? You wondered how much force he was willing to use to trap you here. “I suppose this is fate, isn’t it? An encounter with _you_ is practically preordained. So, what do you want? Is this an ambush?”

An amused hum emanated from the omnic’s vocal box, and he put his other hand over yours, rather like a guidance counselor trying to comfort a traumatized student. “Calm yourself, I do not intend to harm you. I simply wish to talk, and not as an extension of _fate’s will._ Nothing is preordained, young one, and no aspect of our lives is set in stone. Even this meeting only occurred because I have a fondness for knitted sweaters with kittens on them.”

(He was telling the truth about that, at least. You could see the arm of a pink garment dangling out of the paper bag he’d set on the ground when he’d knelt to ‘help you collect your things.’ **Hah.** At least he wasn’t pretending not to have orchestrated that.)

“I wished to impress upon you...” Zenyatta continued, the warmth on your hands a strange hum in the afternoon light. “That you can change your situation, your circumstances. This does not have to be the path that you travel down. I can show you another way.”

“Bullshit,” you snorted, yanking yourself from his grasp and shoving all of your things roughly into your bag. “Fate is the noose that we hang ourselves on; there’s no changing that. And don’t act like I’m some _lost lamb_ that needs saving. I have no idea what it is you _think_ you know about me, but what little you _do_ know should tell you that I am at odds with everything that you are.”

You topped off your bundle of items with the length of rope you’d acquired from the mountain goods store and then stood brusquely, your smile turning sharper as he pushed himself to his feet. It almost hurt to look at him. In the light, he was practically blinding. “There’s nothing we can talk about.”

“We’re all equal under the Iris,” he said softly, raising his hand to you in a gesture of prayer. “And within it exists both harmony _and_ discord. You do not have to continue as you have. There _is_ something else for you. Tranquility lies in wait for those who seek it.”

You felt a sharp tug on the leg of your pants, and you figured that Reaper had reached his breaking point. That was fine; so had you. “God, you’re sickening. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Many times,” he replied with a mechanical sigh, not moving to follow you. His hand slowly lowered to his side, and he picked up his own bag, watching you as you turned on your heel. “May you walk in harmony... secretary.”

“I’ll be seeing you, I suppose,” you spat in return, and sulked about how little time it took for a surprise encounter with a preachy asshole to ruin your mood. Not that you had much time to dwell, because, as soon as you’d moved a few streets away from the hub of activity, Reaper burst out of your shadow and hauled you ruthlessly into an alley.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” He snarled over you, his shadowy form gaining height and girth as his skull-mask pressed close against your face. “Do you know _who that was?”_

Without caring much for your well-being, he pinned you against the wall, and you could feel the rough, solid brick against your back. Hah! Someone was angry. You kind of figured this would happen, but you do wish he could have picked somewhere where you’d have more time to enjoy it.

“Yes, I know who that was, I have a full fucking dossier on him. And if you don’t want the rest of Overwatch bearing down on us within the next five minutes, then we need to _move._ **_Now.”_**

It wasn’t often that you were serious, but you didn’t want to deal with one of his tantrums right now. This wasn’t a good situation.

Your superiors were going to be pissed.

“Tell me what the **fuck that was,** and I’ll let you go. What was _that omnic_  talking about? _Why does he want to talk to you?_ **_What connection do you have that damn organization?_** ”

“It’s not to Overwatch, you – fuck, I don’t have to explain myself! It doesn’t matter! It doesn’t _involve you!_ Now let’s go before we get way more immediately involved with _our sworn enemies_ then we want to be!”

“Oh, loves,” said a woman with a shitty English accent, and you looked over to the mouth of the alley to see a neon yellow eyesore pointing her guns directly at the pair of you. “I think it’s far too late for that!”

Dammit. This was just your luck, wasn’t it?

All you'd wanted was to go shopping! Now you had to deal with _Tracer._


	4. A Brief Discussion of Dharma in the Guise of a Zero-Sum Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tosses out some garbage* here. take it. let me finally move on from this damn stupid edgy scene.

Reaper was the sort of man who shot first and asked questions later. Unfortunately for the both of you, Tracer was the kind of woman who could _blink in and out of time,_ so all the heavy rip of gunpowder and metal accomplished was raising a commotion on the main street. Tracer had disappeared with a _blip_ long before the bullet had even begun to make contact with the space she’d once occupied and, despite the way Reaper had shoved you behind him at the first sign of the perennially annoying _Lena Oxton,_ you quickly found yourself nose-to-nose with the devil herself.

You thought it fitting, that a regent of hell would have such a deplorably cocksure grin.

“Alley-oop!”

She grabbed you without hesitation, ripping you away from Reaper’s side and putting a gun to your temple. Reaper spun, both of his heavy pistols levelled in her direction, but it was already too late. Tracer was now using you as a human shield, grinning at him over your shoulder like a maniacal pixie.

Reaper had _fucked up._ You’d been her goal from the very beginning.

“Now, now, don’t look so glum,” Tracer chirruped, her light voice a contrast to Reaper’s bestial growl. His tense shoulders flickered and broke into twists of shadow, intimately conveying his displeasure. “We can solve this all _quite_ peaceful like if you cooperate.”

“I do not intent to cooperate with _you,”_ Reaper spat. Screams punctuated the air outside of your little bubble of conflict, and you could only imagine that at least half a dozen pedestrians were already dialing nine-nine-nine. No faces had appeared in the mouth of the alley, which you thought indicated an unusual sort of sensibility regarding London’s populace, but that wouldn’t be true for long.

The police were sure to arrive, and you had already predicated what Reaper was going to say before he continued in his gravelly voice. “In a few minutes, I’ll have hostages of my own. If you don’t want me to kill _everyone_ around us, then you’ll let them go. Understand?”

Tracer forced your head into a tilt by applying more pressure with the mouth of her gun. “I might be willing to risk the collateral damage; have you thought of that?”

 _“You’re bluffing._ You’re too much of a bleeding heart. _”_

“You’re also assuming that I’m not completely confident I could kill you first. Are you willing to gamble with their life?”

“Reaper,” you finally spoke up, though you continued to remain perfectly, entirely, and absolutely still. “Leave. You don’t need to save me.”

“I doubt that’s what your _boss_ will say when I tell him I let you die!”

You sighed in response to Reaper’s protestations. “He doesn’t care; it doesn’t matter at all. You won’t be punished because _nothing will change if I die, so please, just leave me to - ”_

Tracer interrupted you with a rough shove of her gun, but your words had already had an effect.

“What do you…?”

“Now, don’t talk like _that,_ luv,” Tracer spoke, with the underlying threat that if you tried once more to drive Reaper off, that would be _the end of the negotiation._ “Especially since what I want is awfully simple! I just need a little information, and then I’ll leave you both be. How’s that sound?”

You had never seen a single one of Reaper’s expressions, hidden as they were behind his mask, but you could only imagine that, right now, his face was one of sheer confusion.

Of course it was. What you’d said was stupid.

 _Being shot_ would matter to anyone, right? If God flipped a coin where heads and tails dictated life and death, every human being on the planet would logically consider that the most important gamble in the world. Life is infinitely preferable to death, except for those who seek death, to whom death is infinitely preferable to life. Even if you yourself didn’t care about your fate due to some bizarre emotional problem that you probably needed therapy for… the outcome of that coin toss should matter to someone, _right?_

Even just accounting for the ruthless nature of your employers… they wouldn’t want to lose an asset!  _Right?_

Except – that wasn’t true. For some reason that he couldn’t quite understand, couldn’t quite place, Reaper could tell that you were entirely and completely serious about what you were saying.

Quite literally, **the outcome of this didn’t matter at all.**

There was just… something in your expression that made him believe you. A dark glint, with a severe, iron-clad grimace that conveyed absolute, dogmatic truth. It was a look reminiscent of a holy inquisitor damning a heretic or a great prophet giving a proclamation directly from God. Before him now, Reaper couldn’t see the shitty secretary he’d spent the past few weeks mindlessly bickering with.

In some bizarre way, he not only _believed_ that you were correct, he _knew_ that you were. To you, to Talon, to the rest of the world – nothing would change if you died.

No – no, even more than that… _you dying_ was a perfectly permissible outcome that would inconvenience no one. He wouldn’t be blamed for it, he wouldn’t be punished for it, and it was possible that no one would even mention it to him before his eventual reassignment.

Was that why you hadn’t flinched back in King’s Row, because it hadn’t mattered then either? You seemed to accept the prospect of dying so simply and easily – _but if that was true,_ then why had Talon paired you with him? Did they just possess so many agents with your skillset that losing you would be about as troublesome as swapping out a light bulb?

No – that wouldn’t make sense. Talon wouldn’t saddle him with such literal dead weight. You had to be useful, yet simultaneously, you were apparently just as useful if you were dead.

What… set of circumstances would produce a situation like that?

Despite himself, he thought back to that night in the hotel, with the moonlight bathing your shoulders and the band of metal around your neck, and he remembered what you’d said.

_Your cut._

…What was it, exactly?

The things Zenyatta had said to you – the things he’d implied, and the things he’d seemed to know –

What were they, exactly?

This line of thinking should have, quite honesty, never occurred to Reaper. Of all the people in the world, he should be the person most callous about your death. He didn’t just _not care,_ he was _actively opposed_ to caring. Yet…  strangely enough, bizarrely enough…

He realized an odd truth in that moment.

You were wrong. There was someone involved with the confrontation who had a stake in whether or not you lived or died… and that was Reaper himself.

Reaper was not a man prone to self-analysis, nor was there the appropriate amount of time to do so. And it wasn’t like this meant that he _cared,_ it was more that he was _fucking pissed off._

More accurately, it could be said that he’d fallen prey to the fallacy of inertia.

He’d been putting up with your bullshit for so long. If it hadn’t mattered this entire time whether or not you lived or died, then wasn’t all of this meaningless? He could have shot you for your insolence at any moment! Giving up was like saying he’d endured it all for nothing!

If you died, then what the hell had he been putting up with you for?

This feeling could also be attributed to sheer competitiveness. If one of Tracer’s win-conditions included your brain matter being spread all over the pavement, then wouldn’t Reaper’s win-condition, since he existed in direct contrast to her, involve you staying alive? He couldn’t let a stupid reject pilot in an orange jumpsuit best him. That’d be _unbearable._

Or maybe… it was curiosity? If you died, he wouldn’t get any answers into the bizarre questions plaguing your mutual situation. Talon was clearly holding something out on him, and while Reaper had before been uncaring about their true motives as long as they helped him achieve his goals, this mystery had become so odd that, perhaps, it was enough to rouse even a dead man’s interest.

The only way he’d ever learn the truth was through you, so if he wanted to understand anything at all, then you needed to be alive.

So – ultimately, it wasn’t that he cared about your continued existence. He was just an angry, belligerent fool who couldn’t survive without appropriate closure. And, as long as he had those excuses, then it didn’t matter that he was willing to go to extreme lengths to preserve your life… because petty, ugly emotions such as those were far more palatable than anything else that might inspire him to save you.

“…And what information do you want, precisely?” Reaper finally asked, causing Tracer to grin like a cat whose whiskers were covered in milk.

 “The location of something that you discovered in King’s Row. Give it to me, and no one will have to die today.”

There was an unpleasant, unhappy set to your mouth, and it was clear that you wanted to protest this entire conversation. However, Reaper ignored it, like he ignored many other things, and thought the matter over. “And how do I know you won’t just shoot them after I tell you?”

Tracer shrugged. “Well, if I did that, you’d probably just return fire, right? When I give ‘em back to you, I’ll have a chance to blip away. Seems about as fair an assurance as any.”

The sound of sirens started up in the distance, and you sighed, knowing something about the situation that Reaper had become blind to in his own impulsiveness.

He’d been correct with his initial assessment. Here, there was no way to ensure the validity of any information given, nor there was a way to ensure the preservation of your life after it was traded away. This discussion was doomed from the start; she’d gain nothing of value, no matter what happened. And if all she’d wanted was your deaths, then the mere act of stopping to talk had damaged her chances irrevocably. Tracer was a being that could only exist by constantly propelling herself forward; halting in the midst of battle was akin to a death sentence.

Tracer wasn’t conducting a hostage exchange; she was serving as a distraction. And Tracer wasn’t waiting for the police to come…

…She was expecting the rest of her coterie

You had genuinely thought he would come to this conclusion and then abandon you as a lost cause.  But he had not.

It did not matter if you lived or died; either outcome would be fine. But Reaper’s life did have value. He was not guaranteed the same protections you were, and…

…Because he was fun, you wanted him to survive.

You could point the truth of his situation out; maybe he’d finally leave you be. But you also couldn’t understand the reasoning that had lead him to stay so long in the first place. It was an alien though process to you, and all you could think was, _well, if he’s not just letting me die, then he’s not who I thought he was._

By defying your expectations of him, Reaper had defied your fundamental understanding of his character. You couldn’t act and trust you knew how the cards would fall.

You had to be more direct, even if it meant losing a secret that it’d been in your interests to keep.

(Even if it meant hurting him too.)

Clenching your fists, you took a deep breath, summoned something buried deep inside of yourself, and then closed your eyes. A voice cried out from the mouth of the alley, a mechanical panic that warned Tracer to back off, to get away from you, to _flee_ – but it was far too late. That bastard monk really was slow, wasn’t he?

It’d be difficult for any sane person to describe the feeling that assaulted every living being in a fifty-foot radius around you. Depression didn’t even come close, and agony couldn’t possibly convey the appropriate level of oppressive sorrow. Doom, perhaps? No – because it wasn’t just an emotion, it was a feeling amplified so many times that it became physical pain. For those affected by your area of hellish influence, it was like everything had suddenly been perverted.

Their worlds, their thoughts, their very bodies rebelled against themselves. Their skin felt wrong, their bones felt wrong, their very _blood_ felt wrong. It was like organ rejection on a grand scale, like a cosmic dysphoria seeped into every aspect of their existences. For Tracer, it felt like being in the slipstream again, being torn apart as each individual cell of her body experienced an individual temporal anomaly. For Reaper, it felt like dying again, and again, and again, and again, with the maggots crawling into his flesh and dissolving him from the inside out. The both of them screamed, though only Tracer’s voice sounded anything approaching human, and they both fell to their knees as uncontrollable grief paralyzed their limbs.

Reaper maintained his hold on his pistols, though his head was bowed as his entire form coiled in agony. Tracer had released her own gun, and you delivered a devastating impact to it with your heel. Like Tracer herself, her pulse-weaponry was far too fragile. It cracked beneath your shoe, sparking light in the dim alley.

You never could tell if doing this really did make the entire world go grey or if it was simply a byproduct of your own unusual vision. And, though you knew no one else in the world saw it, you couldn’t help but wonder if the omnic staring straight at you could also detect _that thing_  behind your back, framing your body with a set of curves and an unearthly, divine glow.

It was comparable to an eclipsed sun, a fierce aura of intense, prismatic light encircling a pupil of impossibly pure black, and it was immediately clear that it was the source of this pure and complete misery.

“Hello again, Tekhartha Zenyatta,” you greeted, spreading your arms out and barely containing a laugh of pure, bubbling joy. “To riff off of your own catchphrase – _gaze into the iris, and contemplate the true nature of despair.”_

There was a pause where he simply watched you. No – more like looked _through_ you, like he was trying to glimpse into the reason for your existence and come to terms with what he saw, but there wasn’t much time to bear witness to your metaphysical implications. Tracer was keening with pain behind you, and every moment she spent near you was another moment trapped in hell.

“There’s nothing to be gained by continuing this. I believe that we can declare this a draw?”

You giggled honestly and without restraint, much like a child that had just been presented with a wonderful birthday cake. “You sic your friends on me after going on about how you want to save my soul… and then you want to negotiate a surrender? That’s  _really_   too much! You’re abhorrent, you know?”

Zenyatta’s face was, as usual, impossible to read. “…I did not want this to occur. Tracer engaged as soon as she saw you, and she ignored my pleas for her to stop. I was hoping to let you go.”

“Let me go! _Let me go!_ Like you wanted to be kind and spare me. Haha! The nerve!” Mania clouded your head, and the metal burned into your flesh pumped a fever into your body. It was a dizzyingly euphoric experience, but you knew you needed to contain yourself. Bringing pain to Tracer was a delight, but Reaper suffered along with her…

And this state of transcendence wouldn’t last forever. You’d come down to the human plane soon, and after that, you be nothing more than a corpse for the flies of Overwatch to crawl over.

“I suppose I can grant that, though. Take your friend, Tekhartha Zenyatta, and then leave me. Run and run, as fast as you can, into ignorance as you try to shield your eyes from the truth. Harmony and discord are opposing forces, and the victor is already preordained! No matter the strength of your will, there’s no such thing as _compromise!”_

After another uncontrollable burst of laughter, you dropped into a kneel beside your incapacitated companion. You knew that the closer you got to him, the more he’d suffer, but there was really nothing to be done. Despite being the source of his personal hell, you were the only ally he had at the moment. Unless you helped him, he’d be the victim of anything Overwatch wanted to do to him.

How pitiful.

Reaper weakly tried to shove himself away from you, operating on the same gut instinct that made one’s body vomit up toxic substances, but you grabbed his arm and forcibly slung it over your shoulder. Forcing him to stand was easier than you’d anticipated it to be – his body felt a lot lighter than it ought to, given his width and height – but you attributed it to him technically being some weird, reanimated shadow monster.

It made your job of dragging him away from the scene of his idiocy easier, so you didn’t complain.

Zenyatta didn’t respond to your quasi-monologue, instead rushing to Tracer’s side and hefting her sobbing, pain-wracked form into his embrace. You spared a glance down at him as you heaved Reaper forward. He did the same to you, looking up at you with his eternally downturned eyes, and seeing his face brought a vicious glint of a superior grin to your face that didn’t abate as he spoke.

“I will continue to pray for you, Secretary.”

“Then, may you continue to pray even as you face the abyss.”

Instead of replying, he stood, carrying Tracer away from you and towards the activity mounting on the street. Much to your annoyance, you knew she’d be fine. It would have been delightful if that had been enough to kill her, but even time distortion hadn’t been able to permanently rip her to shreds. A little discord in her soul wouldn’t put her in the grave, just as Zenyatta’s attempt to spread harmony wouldn’t save anything in the end.

It was all meaningless.

The staccato of your thudding heartbeats accompanied each step as you hauled Reaper along. Bit by bit, that _presence_ left you and color returned to the world, though it didn’t really help the man at your side. Reaper had long since lost his ability to think, and his legs dragged on the ground as you heaved his limp form forward. The only reason you knew he was still ‘alive’ was because of his occasional whimpers, but that was enough to satisfy you.

He’d live.

It would have been far, far better for him if he’d left and hadn't had to experience the truth of your soul, but… well. You’d have a _talk_ with him so that this wouldn’t happen again.

Talon wouldn’t exactly be happy about this development, but you’d deal with it. Even if they decided that having you alive wasn’t worth it…

He’d live, and that had been all you’d really wanted.


End file.
